


The apocalypse promises the end of all things as we know them

by tintinwrite



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tintinwrite/pseuds/tintinwrite
Summary: act 1. golden hair for the red knight of the golden kingact 2. anything for camelot, for youact 3. eyes seeing but not seeingact 4. a puppet all alongact 5. all that remained was the glimmer of steel, the dance of death, and the love that had undone them both.





	The apocalypse promises the end of all things as we know them

**Author's Note:**

> he/him pronouns for Artoria  
> she/her pronouns for Mordred

 

i.

For as long as Mordred lived, she believed that to love is to swear unfaltering loyalty. 

Sitting at the round table, she watches her father, King Artoria of Britannia, in his silent beautiful demeanour, armour reflecting the last glint of sunlight, his blonde hair braided like a crown above his proud head. At that moment, Mordred never felt more proud that she was his son. No matter what bastardized lineage her birth suggested, she is rightfully his, and she is to love him with all her heart. 

Mordred knows that in his heart, the King knew who she was. 

And Mordred believed- No, she was  _ sure _ , that King Artoria had the silent acknowledgement of her power. The throne is her birthrights, she has the strength to prove it. 

If this is not love, then what is? If this is not loyalty, then what is? 

All that held her through the blood and grit of the battlefield, even when her suit of armor felt too close to the bone, dragging her down to the bottomless pit of hell that surely awaits her. Even when the sweat clung to her back, the iron taste of blood ringing on her tongue. All of that earthly belief could not have sustained her through these hardships. No, it was always the reminder, that willful silhouette of Artoria carved out of ivory and rose-leaves, the unwavering force that can withstand any storm. It was always him, that allowed Mordred to go forward, to defy death. 

It is also this love that will grant her the throne. 

The quiet whispering adage of her mother surfaced in her mind. “You are worthy of that crown, my child.” Morgan stroked her golden hair as she said to Mordred, “Golden hair for the knight of the Golden King. You were brought onto this world to assume greatness, even the Gods know.” 

_ Even the Gods know _ … Mordred never doubted that. Her mother is the court sorceress, it is said that she could communicate with Gods and ancient divinities of the past. Many in the court fears her powers, secretly calling her a harbinger of ill-fate. It never bothered Morgan, in fact Mordred was sure her mother relished in these secret scrutinization. 

“They only talk behind hidden screens because they fear my power.” Morgan told her daughter, “Fear is a powerful tool, my child, they make one stronger.” 

“Does the King fear you, Mother?” 

Mordred regarded her mother’s amethyst eyes through hazy fumes of candles and gems, suffocated in the small cavity of her dark room. Suddenly her mother’s fingers were on her throat, around her shoulder, tracing the downward dip of her neck. Mordred could smell a cold decay on her body, seeping sluggishly into her skin. 

“Mother…”

“No” Morgan said at last, in a whisper, choked from her throat. “The King…. She loved-- loves me.” 

“She?” 

“He.” Mordred watched her Mother slink away, back into her seat in the shadows. “He loves me.” She said finally. “You father… he loves us both.” Morgan smiled at her daughter, “And we shouldn’t fail him now.” 

“Yes” Mordred returned the smile, then quickly straightened her back, standing tall. “I will never fail him. I am his heir, his legacy.” 

“My child… My Mordred. How fortunate I am to have you.” Morgan’s eyes brimmed with tears, illuminated by the candles in the darkened room. 

“But remember, you must never reveal your true parentage.” 

Her mother made her promise that she must never make public the truth about her lineage, or even the fact that she was a female knight.  The latter Mordred understood, to be a knight is to assume chivalry. The court would never acknowledge her as a real knight if they knew she was female, no matter her strength, no matter her achievements on the battlefield, no matter her expertise with the blade… She would lose all her credentials, her titles, and most of all, her audience with the King at the Round Table. 

So it is under these circumstances that Mordred grew up in Camelot. 

Mordred has no problem assuming the role of a man. Despite her lean stature and fair skin, she was polished with the blade, excelling at sword and shield. Her reflexes are quick, her ripostes even quicker. She is a brilliant knight, even if she did have a haughty and impulsive personality that was more disadvantageous in time of strategic approach, her grit and resilience impress all those around her. The King depended on Mordred, and Mordred has been nothing but loyal to the cause of Britain.  

Many even compares Mordred’s appearances to that of King Artoria’s, much to Mordred’s pleasure. The same golden hair, shining like a jeweled crown above their head; a pair of sapphire eyes, while Mordred’s burn with a youthful ardent and Artoria’s calmed with a quiet resolve, they both contained within them a sea of courage and faith.  

Mordred relayed this court gossip to Morgan. “Imagine their reaction if they knew I was his heir.” 

She thought her mother would be happy; after all Mordred was their child, their prize, the product of their love. To see her grow into a beloved knight of Camelot, her glories in battle counted in lores, why wouldn’t any mother be happy? 

Except Morgan wasn’t happy. She looked at Mordred, brows furrowed, a secret fuming against her lips. 

“My child… You must not dwell on these idle chatters… Vanity will bring our downfall.” 

“But mother, I still do not understand. They all praise me for my resemblance to the King, there is no sinister jealousy in their words. The King has taken no wives, sired no other children. I am the rightful heir, it is better time than any to claim my birthright.  Why are you still worried?” 

Morgan flinched as if struck by some terrible memory. She said, “the King will deny all of it.” 

“But if father truly loves us, he will understand, won’t he?” 

Morgan looked at her child sadly, “Your father will understand, but I’m afraid the court and the other knights never will.” 

Mordred frowned at the thought, “Even though I have proved to them my strength?” 

“As a knight, yes. But things will not be so easy if you are revealed as a heir to the King… We would be banished from the court, shunned by both royalties and the common people. Assassins will chase our shadows, we would be hunted by the bloodlust of Britannia’s enemies.” 

“But surely the King would never let these things happen.” Mordred said quickly, “ Deep in my heart, I know he wants me to inherit his will. I am worthy of this kingdom.” Mordred felt the secret frustration she’s held under waves resurface. “Mother… I have protected the people as a knight, I am their savior. Now, I want them to know that I will be their King. ” 

“Child… Mordred….” Morgan stroked her cheeks, kissed her brows. “I understand your anger, I know your rage…” She lifted her chin with a hook of her finger, Mordred stared into her mother’s eyes, found within a great pool of melancholy. “I have asked the Gods, begged them to relief us of this injustice… Do you know what they said to me?”

“What?” Mordred whispered, breath held. 

“They said, ‘Your time will come, faithful servant.’ ‘We promise you that you will be glorious in your goal, you will ascend to your righteous place in the sun.’” 

“Mother…” 

“So despair no more, Mordred. Go and serve the King.” Morgan released her from her grip. “And speak no more of this, my child. I grow weary of your inquisitive mind… We have bigger goals than to bicker about our circumstances.” 

So it was then that Mordred kept her battles to herself. As she regarded the silent back of the King riding astride her horse, his faithful subjects surrounding him, the golden crown glistening above him, Mordred swore to herself that her loyalty will be repaid in full one day. And when that day comes, she would be bestowed with the King’s unconditional love.

 

ii.

The battle lasted for 3 days and 3 nights. When the sun rose in the East on the dawn of the fourth day, the enemies, exhausted to only a few calvaries, retreated from Camelot’s stone walls. 

Mordred was impressed by their persistence, despite their small numbers they kept at an offensive attack on the castle ceaselessly. Watchers had to be stationed at water gutters and channels to ensure no assassins were sneaking in. The enemy archers seemed to have endless arrows, raining their attacks endlessly. 

Nevertheless, they were no match for the knights of Camelot. Led by King Artoria on his tall steed, brandishing the gleaming sword of Excalibur in armored hands. Mordred rode next to him, clad in her signature armor and drake’s helm, she was just as imposing as the King. 

The ecstasy of the battlefield that day was incomparable to any battles she’s fought before. When she lay waste to enemy with King Artoria right beside her, the cries of allies and foes alike sounding all around, the full force of the sun reflecting off their armours, Artoria’s in blue, Mordred’s in Red. Mordred hardly noticed the dull ache in her shoulders from the weight of the sword and armor; she plunged and slashed, laughing as she parried the seemingly whimsical thrust of weak sabers. She had never felt more alive, her sword danced in her hand, her heart singing to the tune of the battle. She stole occasional looks at the King, out of her duties as a knight to protect Artoria, and also out of a secret pride to have her father so close to her in this dance of blood. She was certain that he was enjoying the passion for glory as much as she did. 

On the night of their victory, the King hosted a large banquet for the court. Camelot burned bright with merry making and celebration that night. In the royal court, the King looked never more regal in his silver armor wrapped by a lushous royal blue fur cape. He sat almost shyly out of the spotlight, preferring to sip conservatively at his goblet of wine while men and ladies of the court conversed around him.

Mordred, unheed of her mother’s warnings, attended the banquet in a modest chainmail and the signature red cape of the knights. She had attempted to braid her hair like Artoria’s but decided last minute that it was too presumptuous for someone of her status. Instead she let her hair fall to her shoulders, the usual red band that fastened her hair left behind at her dressing table. 

As soon as she entered the hall she was swarmed by a group of giggling girls, daughters of dukes, nieces of barons, aspiring maidens vying for a seat at the high table. 

“We heard about your brilliant victory in battle, Sir Mordred.”

“You were so brave--” “--they say you single handedly slew a hundred evil men!” “--my mother said you wore no armor--” “--but the divine protection of angels shielded your gallantry from harm.”    

Mordred responded to their enthusiasm with a broad grin. Her easy-going, boyish nature combined with an extraordinary intensity in battle has made Mordred a popular interest for the girls of the court. Of course, not one of them ever guessed she was female, though Mordred suspected that even if they knew, it still would not deter them from getting into bed with her. In fact, many times she would receive formal letters from rich nobles and baronets asking for her attendance to their estate so they can “introduce their daughter who had returned from their studies in Roma”. To this, Mordred never objected; she enjoyed the company of the rich and noble, it validated her status as a figure of respect in Britannia. With every invite, every glance stolen at her from the young pretty girl across the table - in which Mordred pretends not to notice - it further cemented her belief that she was a worthy heir to the throne. Afterall, the nobles love her, the people champion her, and the King… the King approves of her. 

Presently, she gave a soft pat on the hand of the girl - a young duchess from a very respectable family - before disentangling herself to be excused. 

“I must pay my respect to the King.” Mordred smiled apologetically, watching the rosy blush bloom across the girl’s face.

Still, the group of girls formed a formidable wall barring her way to Artoria. 

“We would love to dance with you--” “--you still owe me a dance from the last banquet, Sire” “--hey don’t push! You already had  _ your _ turn!” 

Mordred watched in amusement, unsure of how to resolve the escalating fight before her.  _ And all of them are fighting for  _ _ me! _ _ As if I am some great relic unearthed by scholars.  _ The thought elated Mordred, it instilled a new confidence within her. 

“My dear ladies, please…” A voice that was not there before rang out, knocking Mordred out of her thoughts. “If I could… I would like to speak with Sir Mordred.” 

“King Artoria…” All of a sudden the chatterings stopped. The girls, flustered both by the presence of the King and their knight in shining armor, curtsied and hurried away.  

“My King.” Mordred bowed deeply, wishing that her own face hadn’t flared up so suddenly. “Forgive me, I was just going to pay you my respect-” 

Artoria gave a small smile, “Please, Sir Mordred, tonight is for celebration, I implore you to enjoy your youth.” 

“As you say, my King.” 

“Come, let us speak out in the garden.” 

Mordred stiffened. Alone with the King? On a night where official mannerism is forgotten? 

“Just so I can take a breath of fresh air. The sweetness of fig and aroma of spices has clouded my brain.” Artoria guided Mordred through the doors. 

The night was cool, stars alight the sky. The moon was shielded behind black clouds, but the fires that burned inside Camelot was just as illuminating as a thousand suns. 

“My knight Mordred,” Artoria began, “I want to commend you for your brilliance in this battle. Truth to be told, I did not think much of you when you first joined the Round Table: you were impulsive, rash, and above all hot-headed. As a Ruler, I needed subjects with resolute mental fortitude, and as the King of Knights, I needed soldiers with a clear head.”

Mordred bowed her head, listened and said nothing. 

“But you proved me wrong. You have showed great strength and reliability, for the people and for myself.” Artoria turned around to look at her, his blue eyes now shining with a unfamiliar warmth. “I feel I could trust you with my humble secrets, secrets that could bring down kingdoms. Are you ready to take on that duty?” 

“Yes” Mordred replied eagerly, “Anything, for you, for Camelot, for Britannia.” 

Artoria regarded her with steady eyes, Mordred felt her heart tremble with… Anticipation? Trepidation?  _ Could it be that he will confess to his fatherhood? Could it be, that tonight, in this garden of clear skies, my destiny will be fulfilled?  _

Artoria looked at Mordred for a long time. So long that Mordred felt her own soul has been wrung from her by those blue sapphires and torn apart and assessed. That her very character was being placed on a pedestal before a grand jury, awaiting judgement. 

Then the gaze was broken with a sudden flicker of shadow upon Artoria’s bare face. He said, “There are rumours…”

-Mordred held her breath- 

“.. of rebellions. Secret groups plotting the overthrow of Camelot from within these walls. They meet in the middle of night, in rooms enclosed in bricks so that their voices would not leak out.”

“Oh.”

“I fear for the safety of the people if Camelot falls to these zealots.” Artoria turned to face her, his golden crown of hair catching the moon light and glittered in pale silver. His eyes burned with a silent fiery, his words like steel when he spoke. “They long to usurp me, to replace me with a worthier king…” 

“Traitors!” Mordred interjected. She felt her own anger rise in her throat,  _ anyone who dares to question my father... _ “Just give me the word, my king, I will bring you their heads by sunrise.” 

Artoria raised a tired hand, “They say I am not fit to rule Britannia, that I have no love for the city other than a cold penchant for for power and war” He sighed. 

And suddenly the magic moment of celebration was gone; the moon had disappeared behind clouds, casting a shadow against Artoria’s face. The darkness stripped away all the pride and elegance from the king’s face. 

Without knowing what happened next, Mordred reached out and took Artoria’s hands in her own. 

“You do not have to face this alone, my king-- no, father.” 

The last syllable dropped like stone into calm water, Mordred could hear the echo far into the mountain. The festivity of the castle seem miles away. Artoria’s face was a mask, shroudly half in the dark, only his blue eyes shone in the dark. 

When Artoria did not reply, Mordred dropped to one knee. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she said, “I am your trueborn heir, mother did not want me to tell, mother was afraid… For all these years I served under you as your loyal servant and proud knight of the round table, I have loved you, admired you. Father, I--” the words caught in her throat, she willed her voice to go on, “all I wanted was to relieve you of the burdens you carry.” 

“On my honor as a knight, and the love I bore for you, King Artoria, allow me to carry on your legacy.”

Her heart was thumping, she had said what was forbidden, yet in her heart, she knew, she  _ knew _ , that her words had finally reached the king; that when she looks up, she will see open arms accepting her, acknowledging her. 

Except when she looked up, all she saw was the back of Artoria’s head. “I have misjudged you, Mordred. You are still as hot-headed as ever.”

“Father--..?”

“We will not speak of this again. And you will put that naive thought out of your head: the burdens of Camelot are mine to carry and mine alone, so long as I live, Camelot will be just.”

With that, Artoria was gone, leaving behind Mordred in the darkness of the night that have just begun to swallow her. 

 

iii.

“Look at me, father!” Mordred struck out in anger. Her armor clashed noisily against the table, Mordred lost balance for a second, one knee hitting the ground. 

“Enough, Mordred.” Artoria said, still unturning. “You wanted the truth, I gave you the truth. There’s nothing more to say. If you still want to remain a knight of my command, I pray you will not make a scene.” 

Mordred heard the cold disgust in Artoria’s voice. It stabbed into her like twin knives paired to sever the heart. She stared at the stone floor, eyes seeing but not seeing.  _ An abomination born of incest and dark magic, a homunculi that is not even human, a tool for mother, a disgrace to father, a child playing at knighthood. And for all these years I had thought….  _ She had thought what? That her father would accept her with open arms? that he would acknowledge her service and chivalry? That he would be  _ relieved _ ? 

“Why is it that you do not accept me?” Mordred heard her own voice, ghostly aghast and distant. “Is it because I am a woman….” She heard a note of fear in herself, struggled to keep it in, found that she could not. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Artoria’s voice softened for a second, “That is what I am too, and when Merlin bid me to hide myself behind armor and cloak, I had asked the same… But a King is not judged on their birth but rather their mental fortitude and strength. I had passed both tests. Some say women are weak because they are blinded by mother’s love, but I say mother’s love have made me stronger: I love Camelot, I guard it as my own child.” 

_ But your real child is right here, dammit father, look at ME!  _

Mordred could hear her own heart beating fast in her chest, the room seemed to close around her. Tall, elongated shadows of the stone pillars rushing down to crush her, mocked her in her own weakness. 

Artoria didn’t answer for a long time, her face a blank slate, never betraying the secrets she kept inside. Mordred had once thought her laconity exuded an air of vigilance, an indignance of being  king that came with the responsibility to rule an empire. But now she thought Artoria’s mask to be that of cowardice. 

When the ember of the fire have burned low, still Artoria did not answer. Mordred spat belligerently on the stone ground. “I guess you never loved me. Even though I am your son. Even though I am your knight. Even though I have every right and strength to carry on your glory.” 

“Is there nothing you want to say to me, father?” The venom of anger and pain and rage seeped sardonically into her voice. She had hoped to see a glimmer of shame in Artoria’s eyes, perhaps a minute stiffening of the shoulder. 

Nothing. 

“Curse the Gods, father… You made me kill for you, you made me a slave in the false name of a knight, and I did your every bidding without reserve, because I thought you loved-” Mordred gulped down the word, said instead “because I thought you honoured my chivalry.” 

Artoria replied, “I did not make you kill for me. You enjoyed the heat of the battle, you relished in the fame and glory of blood.” 

“Don’t twist my words-”

“You cannot put the blame of your own insecurities onto me, Mordred. I had already repented for my sins. I took the throne because I knew my past will forever burden me if I don’t look forward to the futures.” Artoria continued, “My truth is Britainnia, this is my home, this is my kingdom, this is my love. Only I can protect my people, only I can unite them and bring them into greatness.”

Artoria stood up. The pale glow of the last ember reflected off her silver armor. For the first time, Mordred saw King Artoria for whom she was, a cold indifferent woman who hid her shriveling self under the guise of her crown. 

Suddenly the painted dream of a future where they ruled Camelot shattered like glass inside Mordred’s mind. The glass shards cut into her heart, severed the parts of her that was still full of that youthful indulgence, the innocent naivety of doing good for the world. In the that split second Knight Mordred was gone, and the scared homunculi child born of twisted machination, poised like a puppet on two strings casted carelessly aside by her “mother” and “father”, stepped in and took over. 

“I see.” Mordred said in a voice that was not hers. “I will take my leave now, King.” 

 

iv.

The next morning, Morgan La Fey was excommunicated from the Camelot. Her blood-curdling scream could be heard throughout the courtyard, she denounced the King, she called him names that was only used by tehe barbaric Saxons, when those failed to bring her justice, she began to curse the king. The foreign tongue of her magecraft temporarily unsettled the guards and the hold they had on her released. Morgan fled, stumbling past horses and startled stableboys. She heard the men shout behind her, she didn’t dare to look back, she ran, ran until a familiar face came to view. 

“Mordred!” 

Mordred turned to her, Morgan registered for a split second the shadow across her features, took the smile on her face for a welcoming one.

“Help me child, the King - your father- has gone mad! He is excommunicating me from Camelot. How could he do such thing, does he not know reason?” Morgan wept into Mordred’s open arms. “You must go to him, he will listen to you, surely…” 

Then the shouts of the men on her tail closed in on her. Morgan frantically grabbed at Mordred and pulled her to the shadow of the shadow, “The Gods! They are still after me. You must protect me, child! Protect your mother as a knight!” 

The men caught up with them and hesitated before the imposing figure of Mordred, clad in full-armor. One of them stepped out, a captain of the guard.

“Sir Knight, please surrender Lady Morgan La Fey, she is decreed to be exiled from Britiannia this morn.” 

“This decree came directly from the King?” 

“Yes.” The captain pulled out a parchment and showed the royal seal to Mordred. “She is to be brought on horseback to the border of the country and then set free.” 

“You lie! You bring evil news, how could the King exile me, based on what grounds?” Under the protection of Mordred Morgan seemed to gain a new height. She stood tall, letting the gemstone around her neck shine menancingly under the sun. “And how dare you taint the honorable knight with your forked-tongued lies? Begone, all of you. Knight Mordred had agreed to take me to see the King at once.” 

The captain hesitated, looked at Mordred uncertainly. 

Mordred said complacently, “Captain, thank you for your duties. I will escort the Lady to the King. I am sure the truth will tame her then.” 

Turning to her mother after the guards had gone, she whispered urgently, “Come with me, Mother, I had a small lodging just on the outskirt of the forest 20 miles from here. You will be safe there. I will speak to father after you have settled.” 

Morgan clung to her daughter’s arm, “Oh thank you, thank you my child…” 

They left in a flighty gallop. Morgan disguised in a peasant woman’s clothing, her violet hair hidden under a rucksack. Mordred promised her she will be back in Camelot before long, so she had brought only her stones and tomes.

They rode until dusk. Morgan, tired and disoriented from horse riding, watched the landscape change around her in hazy a blur. Before long, the gallop fell to a low prance, night has come and the sky was a moonless darkness. 

“Where are we child?” 

Mordred helped her off the horse. The night was so dark Morgan could not see anything around her.  

“We’ve arrived, Mother…” Mordred’s voice was strangely nonchalant. “Let me light a torch.” 

“Where is the lodging? I don’t feel the presence of a forest around us” 

“No…” The torch revealed the vast barren grassland. There was not a tree in sight. “Going near the forest will not be good. Fire spread quick in the woods.” 

Morgan felt a chill overcome her, she reached for the small dagger she carried on her person. “Mordred… What’s wrong? What are you doing?” 

“Mother... Or should I call you Morgan Pendragon.” Mordred said in a sarconic voice.  

“No… How do you ---” Then the flash of realization dawned on Morgan, “You mustn’t have! You talked to Artoria?----” The cold steel seeping in her skin cut off her last words. She choked out a mouthful of blood and screamed, “HOW DARE YOU--”

Mordred twisted the handle of her short sword and crunched it deeper into her mother’s ribs. “I spoke to father. And how enlightening it was, Mother.” 

“--KILLING YOUR OWN MOTHER”

“Father told me many things, Mother. I am not even human am I, just some sick experiment for your own greed.” 

“KINSLAYER, YOU WILL BRING DOWN THE WRATH--” 

“I thought you loved me. I thought you are proud of me. You never were, were you? I was a puppet all along, born to carry out your revenge. You fed me all these lies, you kept me in your little cradle.”

“--OF THE GODS. I CURSE YOU--” 

“Oh, shut up.” Mordred pushed the sword in one last time and brought it out swiftly, trailing blood on the ground. 

Morgan made a noise like someone choking for air after a deep dive, except her lungs were pierced, the flesh collapsed in on themselves. Her hands, pale like marble, fluttered to the wound and locked itself there. She fell to her knees. Blood and saliva and tears colored her face in a grotesque painting. Suddenly her own beauty melted into a picture of decay, her own spell wore off with her last few agonizing breathes. 

Mordred tossed the bloodied sword on the ground. “It was not even worth using Clarent on you,” She said vehemently. 

She burned Morgan’s body along with her stones and tomes. The flame cackled and screamed in the night. Smell of blood and parchment and hair kept wild animals far away. Mordred sat there watching the flames.  _ Just rightfully so, witches should be burnt.  _

 

v.

Artoria returned to a Camelot covered in ashes. 

The castle walls, which had once stood proud and strong, wept tears of tar and blood, its body punctured by holes and crumbling stones. The courtyard was littered with bodies, men, women, child, horses. It smelled like flesh and fear and anger. Inside the castle walls the rooms were upturned, either looted or destroyed or scorched with fire. The round table, symbol of Camelot and everything she stood for, was split in two. 

She found Mordred waiting atop the hill where once they had achieved victory, defending the city they once swore to protect. 

“You see what you have done Father?” Mordred gestured all around her, a sardonic smile on her face, “Death, destruction, nothingness. Your precious Camelot is no more.” 

“Mordred, you will pay for your treachery.” 

Mordred barked a laugh, “ME? Pay for MY treachery?” She kicked a deadman’s body under her feet, “This was all your doing, father. Oh no doubt you have fancied yourself a just king, a king for the people. So tell me, why is it that your faithful subjects have all rushed to my side once I declared dissent? If they all loved you as you have loved them, why is it that they rally to supplant you? That crook of a wizard might have convinced you that the blasted sword you pulled out from that stone made you fit to be king, but to the peasants it’s all just fairy tale and folklore. You were the treacherous one, father, you never once shown love to your people. You loved the cold walls of Camelot and the power of Excalibur, and you rode off to your distant wars, forgetting that the people you needed to conquer was right here at home.” 

“Enough, I will  _ not _ have this with you.” 

“No? I suppose truth cuts the deeper than blade. You look half dead already, father, and I was hoping to see the life go out of your eyes by my own sword” Mordred smiled, her eyes wild with fire and death. “Don’t you see, the fate of Camelot was decided on the day you denied my birthright. You did all this, this selfish destiny you created for all of us.” 

“And to think, that I had loved you..” 

“You were a cruel woman until the end. You cared for no one but yourself. Even the Camelot you loved was an illusion created for your own pleasure. I still hear mother’s screams, it brings me much solace. And today, oh how I long for today! To feel your blood on my hands, to see the lights gone from your eyes. Tell me, King Artoria of Camelot, was all of this -denying me of the throne, rejecting me as your son, - was all of this worth it?” 

Artoria donned her helmet, “There was only one reason I did not give you the throne” Her armour never felt heavier.  "It was not because I hated you or despised you; even after all that you've done, I do not hate you. No, I will not give you throne because you do not have the capacity to be King. You will _never_ have the crown, you will _never be king._ ”

Mordred unsheathed Clarent with a lifeless hand, she donned her own helmet, the tip of the horns dripped in blood. 

"I did not know love can feel so close to hate" She mummered under her breath. 

The last light disappeared into the West. All that remained was the glimmer of steel, the dance of death, and the love that had undone them both. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The most cathartic thing I'll ever write.
> 
> I have an intense love/hate relationship with Artoria. I feel too much of Mordred's pain and anger, the child who was born to die. I always think, when Artoria pushes the steel into Mordred's flesh, seeing that first choke of blood spluttering from her child's mouth, it was as if watching herself die. 
> 
> Comments and Kudo appreciated!


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